•  <f 


over 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


Gift  of 


Joephlne  Rhodehamel 


w. 


FOUR  =  LEAF    CLOVKR 


BY 

ELLA    HIGQINSON 

AUTHOR  OF  "A  FOREST  ORCHID,"    "FROM  THE  LAND  OF  THE 
"WHEN  TUB  BIRI>S  Go  NORTH  AGAIN,"  ETC. 


WHATCOM,  WASHINGTON 

EDSON  &  IRISH 

1001 


CorYKIGHT,      1OO1, 

BY   EJLLA    HIGGINSON 


FOUR -LEAF  CLOVER 

TO  MRS.  H.  E.  HOLMES 

I  know  a  place  where   the  sun   is  like  gold, 
And  the   cherry  blooms  burst  with   snow, 

And  down   underneath   is   the   loveliest  nook 
Where   the  four-leaf  clovers  grow. 

One   leaf  is  for  hope,  and  one  is  for  faith, 

And  one  is  for  love,  you  know, 
And  God  put  another  in  for  luck — 

If  you  search,  you  will  find  where   they  grow. 

But  you  must  have   hope,  and  you  must  have  faith, 
You  must  love   and  be  strong — and  so  — 

//  you    work,  if  you   wait,  you  will  find  the  place 
Where   the  four-leaf  clovers  grow. 


THE    TREMBLING   HEART 


I  lift  my  head  and  walk  my  ways 

Before   the  world  without  a   tear, 
And  bravely   unto   those  I  meet 

I  smile   a  message  of  good  cheer; 
I  give  my  lips  to  laugh  and  song, 

And  somehow  get  me  thro'   each  day 
But   oh,    the   tremble  in  my  heart 

Since  she  has  gone   away! 


Her  feet  had  known   the  stinging  thorns, 
Her  eyes  the  blistering  tears, 

Bent  were  her  shoulders   with   the  weight 
And  sorrow  of  the  years; 


The   lines  were  deep   upon   her  brow, 
Her  hair  was  thin  and  gray — 

And  oh,   the   tremble   in   my  heart 
Since  she   has  gone   away! 


I  am  not  sorry — /  am  glad; 

I  would  not  have  her  here  again; 
God  gave   her  strength   life's   bitter  cup 

Unto   the   bitterest  dreg   to   drain; 
I  will  not  have   less   strength   than  she, 

I  proudly  tread  my  stony   way — 
But  oh,    the   tremble  in  my  heart 

Since  she  has  gone  away! 


THE  LITTLE   GIRL    OF    VIOLET -LAND 

Oh,    tell  me   where  is   the   little  girl 

With   the  wind-blown   hair  and  the   fragile   hand, 
Who  once  in   the   beautiful   days   ago 

Dwelt   with   God  in    Violet-Land? 


She   talked  with   Him   in  her  childish   speech, 

She   walked  with   Him,    and  He  held  her  hand, 

One   might   have  known   by  her  lifted  eyes 
That  she  dwelt  with    God  in    Violet-Land. 

But  oh,  for  the   word  of  the  baby   lips, 

And  oh,  for  the  touch  of  the  baby  hand! 

And  oh,  for  the  throb   of  the   raptured  heart 
Of  the   little  girl    in    Violet-Land ! 


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/  stand  and  look  thro'  the  distance  far, 
My  eyes  grow  dim  beneath  my  hand, 

For  I  seek  and  call — but  I  never  find 
The  little  girl  of  Violet-Land. 


SEPTEMBER 

Purple   and  gold  and  crimson, 
Lavender,  rose   and  green, 

With   luminous   rays   of  opal 
Trembling  in  between  — 

And  gold-dust  sifted  over   all 

From   heaven's   curving  screen. 


THE  DARKEST  HOUR 

The  darkest   hour  is  just  before   the   dawn! 

Turn  from   the  deep  black  valley  of  Despair, 
And  see  the   roses  blooming  everywhere  — 

In   the   lowliest  spot  as  on   the  nurtured  lawn. 

There,    shuddering  in   the  wood  the  sweet-eyed  fawn, 
Crouching  until  the  storm  has  spent  its  force, 
Then  with  new  courage  leaping  on  its  course  — 

So,    when   the  darkest    hour  has  passed,    the   dawn! 

O   Hope  —  thou  shalt  not  die   till   Life   be  gone! 
For  he  who  fights,    whatever  fate  befall, 
Let  him  be   true,   and  he  will  conquer  all — 

The  darkest  hour  is  just  before   the  dawn. 


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SLEEP 

O   Sleep,  come   up   the  hollows  of  the  night  — 
My  temples   throb   for   thy  cool,  restful  touch; 
My  breast  yearns   for  thy   coming  over-much; 

Come   up   the  purple  spaces  of  Delight! 

Come   like   the  slow,  soft  pressure  of  the  sea 

Up   tidelands   ridged  by  her  own   lips   at  mom; 
Steal,  like  still  winds  among   the   ripening  corn, 

Across   the  field  For  get  fulness   to   me. 

Breathe   like   a   lotus  lulled  upon   a  stream; 

Thrill  like   a   heart-beat  from   the   chastest  love, 
Or  innocent  rapture   of  a   mating  dove; 

Oh,  kiss   my  eyelids  down,  and  let  me  dream! 


ii 


THE   CRY  OF   THE  DROWNED 

I  am  dead,  dead — 

Down   under  the  sea   at   rest! 
I  am   drowned,  drowned — 

The   waves  press   hard  on  my  breast! 
And  curious   eyes  stare   long   at  me, 
And  all  the   fishes  wonder  at  me, 
And  horrible   things   crawl  over  me  — 

Under  the   sea,  dead. 

I  am  dead,    dead — 

And  the  ships   sail  over  my  head! 
I  am   drowned,  drowned — 

They  sail  over  my  deep,   still  bed! 
And  old,  sweet   faces   look  down   at  me, 
And  old,  glad  voices   float  over  me, 
And  loved  hands   ever   beckon   to  me  — 

Under  the   sea,  dead! 


/  am  dead,  dead — 

They  cannot  see  me   that  look  — 
/  am   drowned,  drowned — 

My  life  is   a   closed  book! 
And  those   above  see  only  the   waves, 
Nor  ever  think  how  each  one   laves 
The  broken   hearts  in   the   lonely  graves- — 
Under  the   sea,  dead. 

I  am   dead,  dead  — 

But  oh,   this   deathless  soul! 
Tho'  I  am   drowned,  drowned, 

It  sees,  thro'    the   waves   that   roll, 
The   thoughts   that   no   longer  turn   to   me, 
And  the   lips  that  no  longer  yearn  for  me, 
And  the  hearts  that  no  longer  burn  for  me — 
How  bitter  to  be   dead! 


MOTHER'S   PICTURE 

Laughing,  a   child,    she   danced  before  it; 

"It's  mama,"  she  shouted,   "why,  don't  you  see? 

I  thought  you  would  know  the  very  first  minute  — 

Why,  every  one  says   she  looks   like  me!" 

Smiling,  a   maiden,  she  stood  before   it; 

"It's   mama,"  she  said,  and  her  voice   was  low; 
"The   eyes   and  the  brow,  and  even   the  dimple, 

Are  so  like  mine;    I  thought  you   would  know." 

Gravely,   a   matron,  she   stood  before   it; 

"It's  mother,"  she  said,  and  her  words  were  slow 
"The  lines  of  care   and  the   eyes  of   sorrow 

Are  like   my  own  —  /  thought  you   would  know." 


An   old,  old  woman,  she  stood  before   it, 

Her  step   was   feeble,  her  words   were   low; 

"Oh,  mother,"  she  said,   "thou   hast   crossed  the   river, 
Thro'  the  lone,  dark  valley  where  I  must  go; 

Hold  close  my  hand,  for  the  way  is  so   lonely  — 
Is  my  soul  like  thine?     And  will  they  know?" 


THE   MIRROR 

I  thought   I  saw  Deception   in   thine   eyes   a-shine  — 
Was  it  but  her  reflection   imaged  deep   from  mine? 


SURRENDER   IN    VICTORY 

Lord,   we   have   made   an   honest   fight 
And  won   the  victory; 

We  fought  as  men  who  love  the  right- 
Fiercely  and  fearlessly ; 

And  now  we   turn   aside   and  give 
Our  trembling   thanks   to    Thee. 

Lord,  it  is  not   for  us  to  drink 

The  salt  cup  of  defeat, 
And  victory  is  glorious, 

And  victory  is  sweet  — 
Yet  still  we  bow  our  heads  and  lay 

Our  laurels   at    Thy  feet. 


16 


//   75   not   for  Americans 

To   boast  that  they  have  slain 

The  heroes  who   have  fought   and  bled 
For   their  beloved  Spain; 

Nay — help   us   to   remember,    Lord, 
That   they  have   died  in   vain. 

Not   sweet  can   it  be,  Lord,  to    Thee, 
But  grievous  in    Thy  sight, 

For  nations  to  rise  up  in  wrath 

And  man  with  man  to  fight  — 

Each   thinking   his   the   only   truth, 
And  his   the  only  right. 

But,  Lord,  the  need  was — and  we  fought 

Fiercely  and  fearlessly ; 
And  still  less  sweet  would  it  be  now — 


More  grievous  —  unto    Thee 
For  us  to  blow  the  trumpet  loud 
In   boastful  jubilee. 

So   check  the   tumult  of    our  joy, 
And  hush   the  rising  cheers; 

We   have   the  splendid  victory, 

And  they   the   blistering   tears; 

For  us   the  laurel-wreaths;    for  them 
Defeat  that  burns   and  sears. 

It  is   the   time   for  thought;    the   time 
For   noble  silence,  Lord; 

To-day  the   mourning-dove   of  peace 
Thro'  all  our  land  is   heard ;  • 

To    Thee   alone  Americans 

Kiss   and  give   up   the  sword. 


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THE    STAR 

I  look  across  the  waste  of  night ; 

My  eyes  swim  deep  in   tears — for  there, 
Plain   to  my  sight,    tho'   bleak  and  low, 

Lies   the  deep   valley  of  Despair. 

Must  I,  too,  walk  those  bitter  miles 

To   that  dark  mire   rimmed  round  with  stones? 
Must  I  leave  blood-prints  on   the   way, 

And  lay  my  bones  with   those  bleaching  bones? 

I  turn   and  lift  my  praying   eyes 

To   the  far  sweet   deeps  of  heliotrope, 

And  lo!    a  star  is  coming  up  — 

The   beautiful  God-sent   star   of  Hope. 


FORBORDINA  TION 

Oh,    but  the  long  smooth  waves  kept  pushing 

That  poor  dead,  beautiful  woman   to-day  — 
Kept   ever  lifting   and  taunting  and  pushing, 
Like   all  hell's  demons   at  play. 

Oh,    but  they   lipped  at  her  throat   and  bosom. 
And  slid  like   a  zone   around  her  waist, 

And  into   her  corsage,  across  whose  fullness 
A    scarlet  ribbon   was  laced. 

Two   thin  dread  disks  of  curling   lashes 
Parted  the  gray  snow  on   her  eyes; 

Pale  were  the  lips   that  had  known   wild  kisses  - 
Too  pale  for  sobs  or  sighs. 


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The  smooth,  thick   ropes  of  her  dusky  tresses 
The  waves  kept  winding  around  her  arm, 

And  around  her   throat   and  her  poor,  bare  shoulders, 
As  if  to  keep   them   warm. 


But  marvel  not  —  nor  murmur   "wherefore;" 
Aeons  ere  she   was  given  breath 

The  very   waves  of  the   sea   were   chosen 
To   taunt  her  after  death. 


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THE    ROSE 

She  put   her  arms   around   Death's    neck, 

And   leaned   upon    his   breast; 
For   Life   had  not   been   kind  to   her, 

And  it   was   sweet    to    rest. 

"Poor  Heart/'    Death   murmured,  bearing   her 

Upon   her   lonely   quest; 
"  Whence   came   this  red,  red  rose  —  whose    thorn 

Has  pierced  thy  bleeding  breast?" 

As    up   the  amethystine   deeps 

They   mounted  to  the   sun, 
She   smiled  into  the  eyes   of  Death : 

"It  is   my  love  for  one. 


22 


"Has  it   a   thorn?      And  do   I  bleed? 

I  do  not  know,    nor  care." 
(She  smiled  again.)       "I  only  know 

That  red,  red  rose  is  there." 


THE  MESSAGE 

Why  did  I  waken  suddenly? 

Did  a   star  fall?      Or,  hark! 
Did  a   bird  call?      Or  did  Hope 

Set   a   lamp   in   the  dark 
To  flame  full  into  my  eyes 
A  nd  signal  —  "A  wake  !      A  rise  ! ' ' 


MARCH 

Hey,  alder,  hang   thy   tassels   out 
This  blue   and  golden   morn ; 
And  willow,  show  thy  silver  plush, 
Wild  grape,   thy  scarlet   thorn! 

And  velvet  moss   about  the   trees, 

Lift  every  russet  cup  — 
The  dew  is   coming  down   this  way, 

With  pearls   to  fill  them   up. 

And  birds,  why  tarry   so   a- South? 

Spent  is   the   bitter  rain! 
With   messages  of  love   and  cheer  — 

Come   North,  come   North   again ! 


"THEN   YOU'LL   REMEMBER  ME" 

You  sang    .     .     .     The  sad  years  fled  like   mist, 

The   hills  were  green   again, 
The  lilies  opened  snow-white   cups 

In   every  wood  and  glen. 

You  sang     .     .     .      The   dark  to   sunlight  turned, 

The  skies  were  blue   above, 
And  every  lark  across   the  fields 

Took  up   the   tune   of  love. 

You  sang  .     .     .     Our  hearts  were  young  again, 

Your  notes  dropped  sweet  and  slow — 

And  each  remembered  one   whose   name 

Must  now  be  spoken   low. 


- 


THE  ROSE   OF  DAY 

The  day  is  opening  like   a   rose  — 
Petal  on  petal  backward  curled, 

Till  all  its   beauty  burns   and  glows, 
And  all  its  fragrance  is   unfurled. 

The  day  is  dying  like   a   rose  — 

Soft  leaf  on   leaf  dropped  down   the  sky 
To  gulfs  of  beauty  where   repose 

The  souls  of  exquisite   things   that   die. 


26 


UNDAUNTED 

There   is   a   wind  comes   at  the  midnight   hour 
Down  this  bleak  canyon   deep   within   the   hills, 
So   wild,  so   weird,  so  strong,  it  stirs   and  thrills 

My  soul,  till  it  is   like   a  shaken  flower, 

Close-nunneried  in  some   dim   old  forest-bower, 

That  pulls   at  its   earth-roots   to   leap   and  go 
Out  on   the  mighty  air-tide's   ebb   and  flow — 

What  time   the   heavy  rain-clouds  darkling  lower. 

Ah,    to   ride   out  on   such   a   wind  as   this, 

Gripped  to   Death's  breast,  upon   his  pallid  steed, 

Without   an   instant's  warning  or  farewell! 
To  press   his   lips   in   one   long   dauntless   kiss, 
And  shudder  not  in  any  coward  creed — 

But  face   what   I  deserve,  be   it   heaven  or   hell! 


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